THE LADY WHO PUT SALT IN HER COFFEE.

was Mrs. Peterkin. It was a mistake. She had poured out a delicious
cup of coffee, and, just as she was
helping herself to cream, she found
she had put in salt instead of sugar!
It tasted bad. What should she do?
Of course she couldn't drink the coffee; so she called in the family, for
she was sitting at a late breakfast all alone. The family
came in; they all tasted, and looked, and wondered what
should be done, and all sat down to think.

At last Agamemnon, who had been to college, said, " Why don't we go over and ask the advice of the chemist? " (For the chemist lived over the way, and was a very wise man.)

Mrs. Peterkin said,
"Yes," and Mr. Peterkin said, "Very well," and all the children said they would go too. So the little boys put on their india-rubber boots, and over they went.

Now the chemist was just trying to find out something which should turn everything it touched into gold; and he had a large glass bottle into which he put all kinds of gold and silver, and
many other valuable things, and
melted them all up over the fire,
till he had almost found what he
wanted.
He could turn things
into almost gold. But just now
he had used up all the gold that
he had round the house, and gold
was high. He had used up his
wife's gold thimble and his great-grandfather's gold-bowed
spectacles; and he had melted up the gold head of his
great-great-grandfather's cane; and, just as the Peterkin
family came in, he was down on his knees before his wife,
asking her to let him have her wedding-ring to melt up
with an the rest, because this time he knew he should
succeed, and should be able to turn everything into
gold; and then she could have a new wedding-ring of
diamonds, all set in emeralds and rubies and topazes,
and all the furniture could be turned into the finest of gold.

Now his wife was just consenting when the Peterkin family burst in. You can imagine how mad the chemist was! He came near throwing his crucible–that was the name of his melting-pot–at their heads. But he didn't. He listened as calmly as he could to the story of how Mrs. Peterkin had put salt in her coffee.

At first he said he couldn't do anything about it; but when Agamemnon said they would pay in gold if he would only go, he packed up his bottles in a leather case, and went back with them all.

First he looked at the coffee, and then stirred it. Then he put in a little chlorate of potassium, and the family tried it all round; but it tasted no better. Then he stirred in a little bichlorate of magnesia. But Mrs. Peterkin didn't like that. Then he added some tartaric acid and some hypersulphate of lime. But no; it was no better. "I have it!" exclaimed the chemist,–"a little ammonia is just the thing!" No, it wasn't the thing at all.

Then he tried, each in turn, some oxalic, cyanic, acetic, phosphoric, chloric, hyperchloric, sulphuric, boracic, silicic, nitric, formic, nitrous nitric, and carbonic acids. Mrs. Peterkin tasted each, and said the flavor was pleasant,
but not precisely that of coffee. So then he tried a little calcium, aluminum, barium, and strontium, a little clear bitumen, and a half of a third of a sixteenth of a grain of arsenic. This gave rather a pretty color; but still Mrs. Peterkin ungratefully said it tasted of anything but coffee. The chemist was not discouraged. He put in a little belladonna and atropine, some granulated hydrogen, some potash, and a very little antimony, finishing off with a little pure carbon. But still Mrs. Peterkin was not satisfied.

The chemist said that all he had done ought to have taken out the salt. The theory remained the same, although the experiment had failed. Perhaps a little starch would have some effect. If not, that was all the time he could give. He should like to be paid, and go. They were all much obliged to him, and willing to give him $1.37 1/2 in gold. Gold was now 2.69 3/4, so Mr. Peterkin found in the newspaper. This gave Agamemnon a pretty little sum. He sat himself down to do it. But there was the coffee! All sat and thought awhile, till Elizabeth Eliza said, "Why don't we go to the herb-woman?" Elizabeth Eliza was the only daughter. She was named after her two aunts,–Elizabeth, from the sister of her father; Eliza, from her mother's sister. Now, the herb-woman was an old woman who came round to sell herbs, and knew a great deal. They all shouted with joy at the idea of asking her, and Solomon John and the younger children agreed to go and find her too. The herb-woman lived
down at the very end of the street; so the boys put on their india-rubber boots again, and they set off. It was a long walk through the village, but they came at last to the herb-woman's house, at the foot of a high hill. They went through her little garden. Here she had marigolds and hollyhocks, and old maids and tall sunflowers, and all kinds of sweet-smelling herbs, so that the air was full of tansy-tea and elder-blow. Over the porch grew a hop-vine, and a brandy-cherry tree shaded the door, and a luxuriant cranberry-vine flung its delicious fruit across the window. They went into a small parlor, which smelt very spicy. All around hung little bags full of catnip, and peppermint, and all kinds of herbs; and dried stalks hung from the ceiling; and on the shelves were jars of rhubarb, senna, manna, and
the like.

But there was no little old woman. She had gone up into the woods to get some more wild herbs, so they all thought they would follow her,–Elizabeth Eliza,
Solomon John, and the little boys. They had to climb
up over high rocks, and in among
huckleberry-bushes and black
berry-vines. But the little boys
had their india-rubber boots. At
last they discovered the little old
woman. They knew her by her
hat. It was steeple-crowned,
without any vane. They saw her
digging with her trowel round a
sassafras bush. They told her
their story,–how their mother
had put salt in her coffee, and how the chemist had
made it worse instead of better, and how their mother
couldn't drink it, and wouldn't she come and see what
she could do? And she said she would, and took up
her little old apron,
with pockets all round, all filled
with everlasting and pennyroyal, and went back to her
house.

There she stopped, and stuffed her huge pockets with
some of all the kinds of herbs. She took some tansy and
peppermint, and caraway-seed and dill, spearmint and
cloves, pennyroyal and sweet marjoram, basil and rosemary,
wild thyme and some of the other time,–such as you
have in clocks,–sappermint and oppermint, catnip, valerian,
and hop; indeed, there isn't a kind of herb you can think
of that the little old woman didn't have done up in her
little paper bags, that had all been dried in her little
Dutch-oven. She packed these all up, and then went back with the children, taking her stick.

Meanwhile Mrs. Peterkin was getting quite impatient for her coffee.

As soon as the little old woman came she had it set over the fire, and began to stir in the different herbs. First she put in a little hop for the bitter. Mrs. Peterkin said it tasted like hop-tea, and not at all like coffee. Then she tried a little flagroot and snakeroot, then some spruce gum, and some caraway and some dill, some rue and rosemary, some sweet marjoram and sour, some oppermint and sappermint, a little spearmint and peppermint, some wild thyme, and some of the other tame time, some tansy and basil, and catnip and valerian, and sassafras, ginger, and pennyroyal. The children tasted after each mixture, but made up dreadful faces. Mrs. Peterkin tasted, and did the same. The more the old woman stirred, and the more she put in, the worse it all seemed to taste.

So the old woman shook her head, and muttered a few words, and said she must go. She believed the coffee was bewitched. She bundled up her packets of herbs, and took
her trowel, and her basket, and her stick, and went back to her root of sassafras, that she had left half in the air and half out. And all she would take for pay was five cents in currency.

Then the family were in despair, and all sat and
thought a great while. It was growing late in the day, and Mrs. Peterkin hadn't had her cup of coffee. At last Elizabeth Eliza said, "They say that the lady from Philadelphia, who is staying in town, is very wise. Suppose I go and ask her what is best to be done." To this they all agreed, it was a great thought, and off Elizabeth Eliza went.

She told the lady from Philadelphia the whole
story,–how her mother had put salt in the coffee; how
the chemist had been called in; how he tried everything
but could make it no better; and how they went for
the little old herb-woman, and how she had tried in
vain, for her mother couldn't drink the coffee. The
lady from Philadelphia listened very attentively, and
then said, "Why doesn't your mother make a fresh cup
of coffee?" Elizabeth Eliza
started with surprise. Solomon John shouted with
joy; so did Agamemnon,
who had just finished his
sum; so did the little boys,
who had followed on. "Why
didn't we think of that?"
said Elizabeth Eliza; and they all went back to their
mother, and she had her cup of coffee.

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